I debate, often, to myself over whether or not to display my photography. I take up issues that woc are rarely represented in the places I go, events I shoot, and affairs I attend. I think much of that debate is internally stunting, because, in the Midwest, there isn’t much diversity, PERIOD. Or at least, not visually or outwardly.

My shrinking bank of energy keeps saying, “Take what you can get. Take what you can get.” And I decided to post my photos of the Pride Alive Rally and Parade that took place in my city over the weekend. The energy was high, the turnout was…better than previous years, I guess you can say. I offered a lift to two strangers on the sidewalk who looked like they were going to melt in the sun as they were strategizing their transportion. As we talked about what brought us to the event that day, he suddenly began making self-depracating jokes about his obesity. At a red light, I stopped my car, turned and looked into his face. He looked backed into mine and something clicked. Loudly.

Movements bring us together. We may struggle with representation, we may struggle with difference. But I concluded that I have spent much of my life wanting things differently than how they actually were, and I’ve missed opportunities to connect with people because of much of my solitary ruminating and pragmatic wishlists.

My movement is with womyn of color. His may be something else entirely, but we found each other that day and we drew laughter, brief connection, and relief in our converation. I stand and am proud to be Brown and alive. And while the flying colors of the Pride day didn’t represent what my exact struggles are, the oppression that digs its heal into our throats is the same: the anti-difference, the indifference, and discrimination against the marginalized. I am proud to be standing, fighting, for equality. I am proud.

 

 

 

 

Picture taken by unknown photographer

A friend was recently married in India and the images of her wedding sent over email were just breathtaking. The traditions, rituals, and color of her celebration are so beautful, so unique from anything I’ve ever experienced.

This picture of Shoba’s hands stunned me. I had to share it. Love, in any culture, between any two people, is art.

I take artistic breathers to give oxygen to my activism because I get so damn angry. To avoid burnout, I often turn to my photography or painting for release. As a women of color obsessed with color, here’s my latest project.

If you wait long enough, a photographer once wrote, you will see brilliant colors everywhere. You just have to wait.

As a budding photographer, I debate the consequences of retouched images. There are times when the tools are useful to adjust the lighting or shadows. But the main obstacle I cannot hurdle is whether my images are, then, truthful, if I manipulate the image so it looks more dramatic or I fuzz something out so another angle looks sharper.

Over the past two weeks, I have brought Baby with me to numerous places and began shooting color, just color. A wedding, an independant coffee shop, downtown, a butterfly show, a Sunday afternoon in the park. Like the wise photographer said, as long as you wait, the color will come. The natural astonishment, natural lighting, natural majesty of nature, people, and the collision of the two worlds will surface.

What I found is that regular life is pretty spectacular. A broken wing, a blue alley wall, hands, girl dress straps, a hanging sash, a red purse, and stained glass windows are just a handful of the jewels I found on my escapade. No adjustments, no tools, no fix-ups. All these poetic encounters brought me to one joyful truth that I’d like to shout from the rooftops: the world is disarmingly beautiful, just as it is.